


Why Are You Here?

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Henry is just a phase, M/M, Mycroft Interferes, Sherlock immature when it comes to emotions, Soft Love, genitals mentioned, major death due to illness, not explicit sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 18,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Sherlock meets an interesting man. A dancer. Warm and compassionate.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/ Henry Falconer, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Leonid Popov
Comments: 11
Kudos: 13





	1. Coming Out Party

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of the chapters are very, very small.  
> I fell in love with my Russian ballet dancer. Leonid. Hope you like him also  
> Leonid speaks Russian and Sherlock understands the language. To make it easy for you, the reader, I put the English in parenthesis.

I need a joint or a drink or both--something to tamp down this evening’s tedium as expeditiously as possible. Or at least to blur the edges. An all-pervading weariness has set in even as it only has begun.  
My mind is mush, barely able to function. A featureless smile and a murmur of thanks to the nameless faces as they swirl by me.  
The smell of perfumes, the stench of the fat cat upper-class, the flash of jewelry, and the mindlessness of this evening.The cream of Englands' officials, the wealthiest, the drivers of the government and the commercial sector, at this social function not to honor my birthday but to demonstrate their self-importance.  
Tradition! In the Holmes family, it's an introduction to society. A posh gala for all male members upon reaching their twenty-first name day. And tonight is the night I’m to be recognized. Repugnant, distasteful, gaudy, ostentatious.

My father is determined I someday become a member of parliament or achieve renown as an international diplomat. My dear mother is persistent in that I meet the cream of society’s young women. She wants grandchildren, she hawks. Not that she’s ever been a mother. Nannies are her go-to for brother Mycroft and myself.  
Flanked by my parents on one side and my brother Mycroft on the other, I’m obliged to shake hands, be kissed and hugged by two hundred and twenty-three people.  
The bar is the first refuge I seek. I don’t wait for the bartender but step behind and pull a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. The bartender, a heavy-set man, turns, startled and tackles the bottle out of my hand. “Do you mind? This is my party. I am the birthday boy.” He bows, “So sorry sir,” and releases the glass bottle to me, which is snatched out of my hands by my brother, who, at my side, murmurs low, “One drink and that will be at dinner. You will not disgrace our parents, Sherlock Holmes,” my older brothers unmistakeable sneer, quiet but stern.

At the head table for dinner, my brother is seated next to me. I imagine his doing. The five-course dinner is punctuated continuously with those seeking an audience with my brother or father. Champagne is opened and I ask the waiter for a glass of whiskey.“ Waiter, Karl, is it? He’ll have one glass and don’t bring the bottle. Thank you,” Mycrofts silk voice has my stomach-turning.

The evening's entertainment is held in a high ceilinged, chandeliered, ballroom with a polished wood dance floor. Around the perimeter are small round linen-covered tables. A fifteen-piece band sits on a revolving stage. At the far right against the wall, a mini pub and an assortment of stools and high tables.  
I’m obliged to dance with the tall, the fat, the skinny. The aged, and the middle-aged. I listen to tales of their grandchildren, their daughters of marriageable age, their husbands. Their attempts to climb the ladder through my influence with my brother or father have me grimacing. My patience is wearing thin; I make one excuse after another to step away from them. One woman, in her forties, slips a small paper in my hand as we dance, winking. Sighing, I look at it as she steps away. I see a room number and a rendezvous for tomorrow night. I need a smoke. I need a drink. I need something.  
I am searching for someplace to hide and discover an area away from the main crunch of people. A large window off the other side of the pub and I hastily walked there. I lean against the cool glass. It soothes my stiffness, and I loosen my tie. I’m hoping to find a sympathetic soul to fetch me a glass of whiskey.


	2. The Ballet Dancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John Watson and the ballet dancer

Oh, what’s this? My interest is piqued as two men approach. Two men who are not from the social strata as the ballroom filled crowd. The smaller one, dressed in a well-worn tuxedo has his blond hair cut short, a genuine smile, and sparkling blue eyes with a mischievous glint.  
The other is taller than myself, angular, athletic muscles but with a tiny waist. His features are pleasurable to view, almost girlish, with blond curly hair that reaches to his shoulders.  
His attire consists of a dark blue velvet suit and-- ballet slippers. Aha! A dancer!  
“Ah, the honorary guest," the shorter one says, “ Mister Sherlock Holmes. Glad to meet you. I am John Watson, England’s publicity agent for this man, Leonid Popov, the Russian ballet dancer.”  
All the while that Mister Watson is talking the dancer has his eyes glued, staring, gaping, wild and transfixed on my face. As if feasting on me.  
Black, deep black eyes.  
“So glad you could come,” tearing my gaze away from the dancer to Mister Watson.  
“I’m here only as Mister Popov’s liaison. His manager has taken ill and is in hospital. I’m sorry we only just arrived, but Leonid had a performance tonight.”  
His voice is even-keeled, but I sense an undercurrent. A temper that could flare at any moment. He stimulates my imagination. He was once in the army but is now adrift. Just turning into his thirties, I imagine he wishes for a more exciting career.  
Mister Popov moves within inches of me, his arm stretches out, and his index finger lands on my cheekbone.  
I pull my head back. Unused to being intentionally exposed to touch.  
“No, no. Let me, please,” his voice is quiet, his accent unmistakable.  
His finger pushes my hair away, over to my earlobe. If he were a vampire, he would be transferring his teeth to my exposed neck.  
“ Don't talk, don't speak. Let me gaze at ravishing figure I see before me,” now sliding that finger down my cheek, with the barest of touch, like silk on my skin. “Where you come from? A fairy hole?”  
My heart rate jumps, as I softly giggle at his whimsy. “The only fairy hole is one called London.” A fairy hole? Me? How strange is this man! And stranger still is my allowing his intimacy.  
“Such bad manners I have. Forgive me,” stepping slightly away, his arm sweeps down to an exaggerated bow and back up, “Leonid Popov, your servant.”  
My breath shudders, and I’m captivated. He executes a pirouette and bows from the waist, his head close to touching his knees.  
Not married, I quickly assess. Possibly gay or bisexual. Comes from a line of ballet dancers, both sides of his family and is moneyed.  
“I will be your Juliet, your Odette. I kneel,” dropping down to both knees, his head bowed, “ my life at your feet.”  
Both John Watson and I have smiles reaching both sides of our faces. Taking enjoyment from the only real entertainment of the night, I reach to pull him up, " And you don't have to die for me."  
Mister Watson giggles, “he’s all yours. I’ll come and collect him a bit later. Would like to speak to your mother,” and saunters away. Mother collects artists as a hobby. Aiding with both money and influence.  
“Mister Sherlock Holmes, I wish to explore, to drink, to smell, to taste--.”  
Startled out of my reverie as I watch the back of the agent as he leaves, Leonids slim fingers still play notes on the nape of my neck, pressing me closer. So close his breath leaves a moistness on my cheek.  
Aware we are being scrutinized by some people, I step to the side, “ Please, there's no need to be so dramatic. And not in this--this--.”  
“Ach, but Leonid likes the drama. To meet man who--to gaze on--.You are like picture in museum. To impress man I want to be intimate with tonight, I do--whatever he commands.”  
Bowing, his face looks up, his dark eyes smoldering, gripping me in his passionate gaze.  
As a matter of course, human emotion is lost on me. I have never experienced strong emotions towards a human. And that’s why Mister Popov’s gaze is puzzling. What is it in myself that sends this wave of frenzy towards him? He’s not the first whose gaze has landed on myself and become so--so lost.  
“Come,” reaching to grasp my hand, “we flee from party to be alone.”  
“I cannot,” holding him back, his hand slipping from mine.  
John Watson steps out of the mass of people and grabs at Leonid’s arm.  
“Leonid, we must leave. It’s late and you’re tired.”  
“May I join you? At least until we are out of this--.”  
Leonid takes hold around my waist and the three of us progress along the rim of the hall until we stand at the doorway.  
“John, I would want some moments with Mister Holmes. You go to the hotel and I follow,” Leonid still has a grip around my middle and I don’t resist.  
I feel like there are strings being pulled, strings of which I have no accounting for. Something is propelling my life, my body forward into an unknown space. Emotions I can’t understand are playing amongst the three of us. I’m bewildered! My normal train of thought would be to step away from these two, but I stand, letting the situation occur as it might.  
“Mister Holmes,” John interrupts my introspection, thrusting his card into my hand, “I would enjoy having a drink with you one night. Call me,” and disappears into the night.  
Leonid is childlike in his pursuit but I admit to a perverse pleasure being in his spotlight. No sham, duplicitous manner. He fancies me for his bed. I’m enchanted, almost as if a magical moment has swept over this occasion.  
“ For the angel, I bring the wings to travel on,” sweeping open the door, “but for you, the pretty one, my name is Leonid. Not Mister Popov. Popov is for strangers.”  
“Leonid, you are a wonder. And for you, I am Sherlock.” The cold night air numbs me, remembering that I had left my coat inside. I wrap my arms around myself.  
“Let me to warm you. It's first step to fucking you,” arms swaddling my body.  
He has me laughing outright, and I can’t take him seriously. But for this brief period of time, he is the focus of my interest. He’s outlandish enough to hold my attention. Anything other than the stultifying atmosphere that had surrounded me earlier.  
A white stretch limousine stops at the curb, and Leonid takes my elbow aiding me onto the leather seat. Sliding in next to me, his side tightly packed against mine.  
“ I just stare at you, must dream. I am in love- I am bewitched. Will these eyes see you again?”  
“Why not!" beaming in the spotlight his eyes provide.  
He springs up and sits across from me, leaning inward, his hands on my knees.  
“I touch you? Lightly? Like feather?”  
Before I can react his fingers undertake the removal of my bowtie and begin to unfasten the pearl buttons on my vest. His eyes, those dark eyes, never stray from my face.  
“What are you attempting?” pulling at his fingers as he loosens the first button on my shirt collar.  
“Leonid, he only do what you like. I stop when you say stop.”  
“ Leonid, stop,” whispering. Afraid to displease. Why am I afraid to displease?  
Sherlock--mentally scolding myself--desist. You’re not his fanciful bauble!  
“But why stop? Have I offend you? Leonid only wants the pleasure for you,” lips out, pouting; he leans back but raises one ballet shoe to stroke my thigh.  
“Aha. I know,” throwing both arms up, “Sherlock want to be wined and dined! First the formalities,” and, jubilant with his discovery, he prods his foot towards my groin, “then have sex with you!”  
He has without any reservation decided to bed me. How ridiculous is this situation getting?  
He pouts, his chin to his chest, peeking to see if I’ve succumbed. “Is sex not good? Too soon? Maybe fuck after dessert?”  
“Before dessert. After dessert,” laughing. “Okay, I give up.”  
He sits up, throws himself on me, his lips throwing pecks on my cheek. “I make the best fuck for you,” sliding off to sit on the seat beside me.  
“No, no Leonid. No fucking. I meant I would let you wine and dine me.” I grow serious, somber enough to let him understand. “I've never had nor do I think I want--.”  
Taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger he turns my head, “Wait, Sherlock, man like you? So beautiful, have never--? You jest for Leonid. But of course a woman, not a man takes your heart.”  
I could lie to him but the passion he pours into his scrutiny leaves me no choice.  
“No woman either.”  
Shaking my head, his fingers touch his lips, “A virgin! Such a beautiful man to never experience the pleasures of the body? I must think,” and he stares at the ceiling.  
“For first time having sex, a person needs tender partner,” his face turning towards mine, “ It would be honor for me to be the first,” he waits, head cocked.  
He's insane! He's mad! I'm foolishly giggling. “Stop. Just dining will do.”  
“Mister Sherlock Holmes, I will not sleep, will not eat until you are in wonderment for sex.” He takes my hand with both of his just as the limo stops and the driver emerges to hold open the back door.  
“When, my fair one and how my fair one. I come in my carriage. White horses with fairy wings.”  
Glancing uneasily out the door, I cannot justify my reluctance to give my answer.  
“Wait,” one foot out, “ why you run, like Cinderella! Stay in car and let me--.”  
"No Leonid. Enough," pausing, “but if you wish it we could have dinner one night.”  
"Will you leave token? A slipper for me?"  
I laugh at his playfulness and granting his wish, I remove my handkerchief and drop it on the floor of the car.


	3. Mycroft has a few words to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very, very short chapter

Mycroft is furious! He stands, body tightly drawn in, his umbrella tapping on the floor. “How could you--? Disgraced the family. Disgraced Mummy and Daddy. Deserting your celebration midway through. What possessed you? And with that--that ballet dancer and his agent!” Mycroft adheres to the old customs and, in doing so, is vigilant that the family’s stature is above reproach. Taking off with an uncivilized foreigner, so he imagines, even one as noted at Popov, well, that is beyond his grasp.  
“Couldn’t stay. Sorry,” absorbed with my fingers, sitting, refusing to stand.  
Mycroft huffs, “You don’t delude me at all. You’re not remorseful. Being your customary fuck up as you always are.”  
He must be incensed. Mycroft doesn’t use obscenities.  
“If I were your father--,” and the expected litany resumes in all its mastery. “I would whip your backside until red, cut off your allowance and insist--”  
“You love that idea of whipping, don’t you,” my lips curls, a smirk rises, “ Bet it makes you horny, doesn’t it?”  
His chest swells out, the bang of the umbrella’s ferrule cracks the atmosphere, “You will visit mother and father and accept whatever tongue lashing they disperse.”  
“I’ll call.” shaking my head, my mouth dry, the knowledge he is right does chafe.  
“No,” he whacks the brolly against my chair, causing me to flinch. “I will send my car tomorrow at eleven,” turning on his heels he stomps down the steps.


	4. At the Parents House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Mummy planning? Where is John in all this? And Fathers proposal to Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short chapter

“Sherlock, darling,” mother says upon opening the door. She steps back, tut-tutting, “what a bad boy you were. You left without a word and so early. I had to make excuses. Sick from too much food, I told everyone,” she says, advancing to the parlor the same time that father makes his appearance. “William Sherlock Holmes, you’ll be the death of us. Your mother was so unsettled she had to take her calming meds.”  
“So sorry, mums. But you know how I detest gatherings.”  
“After all the work I put into it and all the people who--. Ah, well, it's done and over with,” taking my arm, “come into the kitchen, and let’s see what cook has for lunch.”  
Fathers exasperated voice could be heard in the kitchen, “you spoil him so, my dear.”  
Patting my arm, “I understand you met Mister Popov. I was crestfallen when he left before I had the opportunity to interview him. You know how your mother loves the theatre. Ah well, c’est la vie. Now that you’ve made your formal appearance, I will take it upon myself to invite some eligible ladies for dinners. And,” tapping me lightly on the arm, “ I expect you to join us without leaving early, without your usual wretched impudence.” Tilting her head, she giggles, “ I’ll ask Annabelle and her niece. The girl moved to London weeks ago. It might be marvelous for you to show her around the town.”  
I tune out the rest of her jabber, nodding along, and devour a delicious salmon lunch with our cook, Hannah, silently nodding her head. Knowing exactly how this Holmes boy is internally taking in mothers chatter. Hannah has spent much time when I lived at home listening to me go on about respectability and my disgust at family tradition.  
No communication from Leonid. I wait for it both horrified and dismayed at my twisting views. His attention was--delightful--yet--alarming. I have never questioned whether I would want to ‘discover’ the pleasures of the body. Until now.  
True to mother’s word she calls and summons me to dinner the next Sunday evening.  
“ I’d like you to say hello Annabelle and her niece Veronica.”  
Bowing to them, I note Annabelle’s ring finger. The marks of a wedding ring. She’s divorced, has ample alimony but likes the austere appearance. Veronica, her niece, is a wisp, both in body and mind. Unassertive, she drops her gaze, her hands retreat into her trouser pockets, and I tune her out of my consciousness.  
Standing several feet away is someone whose eyes do meet mine. Flashing his blue eyes, his hand already in mine, well before my father says, “Let me introduce you to--.”  
“I know this man, father. Hello, John Watson,” letting my hand be held longer.  
“What brings you to my family’s table tonight, Mister Watson?” tucking Veronica's arm into mine and rotating my head round to communicate with him.  
“Your mother and I have had dealings before, and I know Veronica’s sister Abby who is a dancer. Not classical but musicals.”  
We are seated according to mother’s instructions. I next to Veronica and across from John.  
“I know you think I'm pushy, but what happened that night--.”  
“Brazen more like it, John,” and offer him a quick smile.  
Mother and father exchange glances and they can deduce that John, although involved in my early departure did not continue on with me.  
John’s head shakes in disbelief, “and you’re cheeky,” challenging but with flair.  
John Hamish Watson, his records state, is the second child from a middle-class family here in London. His sister is older and stays away from the family. Drinking and being a lesbian are two features that invoke arguments.  
“Truce?” John proposes with a wink. I wink back.  
“John, Abby says you have aspirations of becoming a doctor? Aren’t you a bit too old to start?”  
John chokes and clears his throat and gulps his glass of wine.  
A sensitive subject. No money I suspect.  
“It’s not easy, and I’m working towards that goal,” graciously responding, cutting into his lamb.  
“So sorry, Sherlock, I meant to contact you but got into a whirlwind of events with my clients. How does twenty-one feel? I remember those days. Drinking, carousing. All fun and self-indulgent.”  
Mother interjects to keep me from myself, “Sherlock is a solemn young man. He is considering entering the law firm of his father.”  
Smothering my answer, the warning glance from mother enough to warrant it, I watch the gleam of understanding play across John's face.  
“And, Sherlock, if you aren’t converted into a lawyer, what would you do with your life? What would be your choice, I mean.”  
He’s performing a role for my parents. The older man troubled by the younger man's lack of dedication to the family's carefully crafted dynasty.  
“A playful contrivance of mine. To become a forensic detective.”  
I hear the rumbling of my fathers' frustration in his throat, and turn my attention to my mother and Victoria’s conversation, simulating interest.  
“Sherlock,” my mother holds my gaze, as the guests are putting on their coats, “ stay a few minutes.”  
“What say you to a drink at a local pub tomorrow night?” John asks shrugging his coat on, “would the Wishbone Pub be a spot?”  
After agreeing on the time, John hugs mother, and with a brief nod to me he shuts the door. Father is sitting in his customary armchair, his pipe lit and motions me to pull the other armchair closer. Mother leaves the room.  
Suspicion rears as to where this dialogue might have its conclusion, and it’s not going to be in my favor, I’m afraid.  
Slowly puffing on his pipe, I bide my time, crossing my legs and gripping the arms of the wingback chair.  
“I know you are, to a greater extent, absorbed in the sciences. But as a profession, it is not worthy of a Holmes,” his pipe puffs, “ I will extend a compromise. If you become a member of my firm, I will establish a laboratory in Barts hospital and will supply it with all the equipment essential for your experiments.”  
I’m thrown off guard, understanding this is an offer of great import. It’s tempting. It’s staggering.  
“I would, until your wild ways are tamed, expect you to inhabit your old room here in our house and concede to our regulations.”  
Bouncing out of the chair, shaking my head, dismayed, “I’m sorry father, but as much as your offer is prodigious and seductive, I cannot bite the bullet. I will not live under your roof anymore. Please excuse me now. I wish to depart.”  
He nods his head and taking my coat from the closet I shut the door.


	5. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock

Father is not wrong. I was, and in some ways, I am still wild. I refuse to accept the vapidness, the colorless lives they inhabit.  
During my teen years, I experimented with heroin and cocaine. It bolstered my courage enough to endure my classmates. I learned to drink, to vomit along with them, to gamble, and to be witless. My grades were poorly. As far as any female company, I avoided any possibility of associating with them other than the everyday classroom encounters. The feminine presence held no mystique, no preoccupation as it did my contemporaries. I was ever alone, and I welcomed it.  
The pub is bordering on old and is frail-looking. It could be torn down at any time and be better for it. But, it’s a favorite with the thirty-somethings because of its finger food. Brimming with people, John meets me at the door, and we push through the crowd to the bar, where John shouts his orders for a beer and a burgundy. “ Come with me,” shouting near my ear, and we wiggle our way towards the rear. One stool sits unoccupied and John pats the stool, but before I could decline, the man sitting next to it slides off, “ I’m about to go anyway. Missus doesn’t want me home late.”  
The sounds are not as loud in this corner, and we can speak without shouting. “That shindig your parents threw for you. I know you hated it.”  
“Nauseating. The only bright point was--,”  
John chuckles, “ yep. Leonid. A piece of work that man is. So he offered to fuck you right off the bat! That was rather a surprise.”  
I look at the barman washing the glasses and pretend indifference. Deep inside my stomach churns at the fact that John has that knowledge.  
“Come on,” nudging me with his shoulder, “he told me all about you. All he could talk about was your beauty, your intelligence. He fell for you as soon as he saw you and was so giddy he became silly. And scared."  
One corner of my mouth quirks up, “Scared? Why?”  
“Afraid of losing you. Afraid you'd turn him down. Do understand this about him. He loves playing. He loves sex and is not afraid of it. But, from what the members of his company have said, he does not give love lightly.”  
His shoulder touches mine and stays there, affording an intimacy.  
“There was something that night he felt with you. Out of the ordinary, he kept saying. He wanted so desperately to be with you. Since then, though, he’s been so caught up in the dance and interviews and hounding reporters. Not much time to do anything other than dance and sleep. Every time he thought he had some free time to focus on you, it was whisked away.”  
Balancing back on the stool, “and since you’re dying to ask, no, I have not been with him, not in that way. Not interested in men. And he does not know I’m here with you. Thought that would be unfair.”  
We both contemplate our drinks, and I ask him how and why he became an agent. From there, our conversation flows to politics.“Well, I have to say this was most pleasing, Sherlock. Would you like to meet for dinner, say, in two days?”  
I agree and leave with the understanding that John Watson would be a person to cultivate as a friend. Friend. That’s a new concept. Must forge ahead.


	6. Leonid's Invitation

Key in hand, I look down, and there’s an envelope tucked under my door. No markings.  
Upstairs I boil water for my tea and leaning against the counter open the envelope.  
‘I wish to invite you to a lovemaking Tuesday at 10 pm at the Wiltshire Hotel.’  
Your most attentive host  
Leonid.  
No r.s.v.p. No phone to contact him. Tuesday night. Tapping the paper on my lips, I admit to discomfort, edginess, and a thrill. What to expect? I only know it will be an evening like I’ve never had in my life.  
How shall I dress for tonight's ‘lovemaking’? Do I tease? Do I dress conservatively?  
It will be entertaining to see how Leonid tries to bring about my seduction. Sherlock! You are clearly at odds with yourself. One second you loathe the thought, the next you’re fantasizing!  
Throwing shirt after shirt on my bed, my walk-in closet a mess of confusion.  
A purple silk shirt is the final piece I pick, and I put on a navy tie. Then, thinking better of it I take it off, leaving the top two buttons on the shirt undone.  
Silk black boxers. No! Even before they are on my body I’ve discarded them and put my feet into my bespoke black trousers. Are you expecting him to flirt? Of course! Do you fancy that? Yes, I admit it. Nervous, panicky, vulnerable and confused. Aroused, challenged, fearful. Fluttery stomach, dry mouth, tightness throughout. My breathing shallow I swallow large breaths. Every mood, every mental process takes place as I make the trip to the hotel.


	7. The Hotel

There is no bluster or swaggering, just a nod of his head and his walking ahead of me to the elevator. No smile, no greeting. He’s got a cape thrown over him that encloses all but the white tights peeking out at the knee and his ballet slippers. Has something soured him? Is he remorseful about tonight?  
“Something is upsetting you, Leonid. I will walk away now if you ask.”  
He touches the red rose I had slipped into a buttonhole on my shirt. “Lover give you?”  
That’s the problem! My fingers trace over his, “no, no. I picked it from my garden. Do you want me to throw it away?”  
“ You keep.” His face has lit up, animated again. “Yes, yes, all fine.”  
“Leonid. You talk only of pleasing me. What do I do?”  
“I smile in your presence. That is enough. For now!”  
At the top floor of the building, the elevator door slides open the smell of roses invades my nostrils.We’re in a small foyer with two large double doors in front of us.  
“Please remove footwear,” as he takes off his ballet slippers.  
He inserts the keycard, softly announces, “For you, the admiration--and love,” bowing low, turns the latch.


	8. Leonid's Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gentle, kind and caring.

The range of emotions, heart-stopping, knees buckling. A mind muddied response to what I smell and see runs like a movie at full speed.  
The scent of roses, red roses in vases, their petals lay on the white, plush, thick carpet, on the chairs and--the bed.  
Candles of white and gold and the flickering fire from a fireplace illuminate the room with a mystic glow. The white furniture is festooned with gold accents. The wallpaper is white with gold fleur-de-lis.  
One wall is entirely glass, and a white chaise lounge sits in front while London and its own twinkling lights are visible.  
The bed--the center of attention. The object I have tried to avoid looking at. It is at the center of the room A round four poster canopy. Gold sheets and rose petals.  
I’m mentally numbed. Shaking my head, my pulse racing to the moon.  
“Leonid, it's too-it's so--” breathless, shaken.  
“All for you, my adoring one.”  
“Leonid, it's too-it's so--,” repeating. My admiration at the extent of this indulgence is staggering.  
Taking both my hands in his he leads me to the window, turns me to face him and throws the cape over the chaise lounge.  
My heart climbs into my mouth, as my gaze lands on him. His blond hair curls on his shoulders, a piece tumbling on his forehead. His shirt, open to the waist is long-sleeved and hanging from his sleeve is my handkerchief.  
His skin-tight white leotards have my stomach insides fluttering, my eyes closing for a second, setting my nerves on edge with the desire to turn and leave.  
The leotard exposes his dancers’ muscles as they flex. But what is most defined is his genitals.  
Swallowing deeply, flustered, I cannot propel myself to make a decision. Do I remain or do I flee?  
“You look-, well, you are-.” What has happened to my thought process? I’m dumb! Numb to speech.  
“You like, I see. I wear for you only.”  
The significance of this display, the intensity crumples my legs and I fall onto the lounge.  
He slides next to me, brushing my hair from my neck and nipping tiny bites, his tongue dipping into my ear  
“I do not hurt, do I?” leaning back, his face flushed.  
“No, no, I--am so affected by--,” sweeping an arm around to encompass the room.  
“Ach, to stimulate you is good. You are well-loved,” his tongue nuzzling my ear. My breath shallow, my thoughts flitting all over.  
“Leonid, you are--.”  
“Is not good? You not want?” his voice quavering, stopping to eye my face, see my reactions.  
“No, no. It’s good. I mean--don’t stop,” squeaking the words out.  
His fingers rest on my cheek, those black orbs penetrating me.  
“Mister Sherlock Holmes. You are thinking this is only fancy for me,” he wavers, but continues, “ I act silly because you frighten me.”  
“I do?”  
Those fingers stroke my cheek, move to brush my lips.  
“Please let me continue. I--never had such a reaction to my heart. So fast it beat. I wanted you--wanted you for myself. And now--well, I wish to make quiet, soft love on you. Not for me. For you to know first love is good.”  
Sitting back, he looks down at his hands folded in his lap.  
“Do you want me--? If no you walk out the door and--.”  
I place a finger on his lips to stop him, “yes, Leonid. I will stay. I want you to teach me.”  
His face lights with contentment, and humming he turns the volume of the music slightly higher.  
“ Cinderella by Sergei Prokofiev directed by the London Philharmonic, is it not?” I say.  
“My Sherlock not only pretty but smart,” and as he’s pouring champagne into glasses, his hand, no it’s his entire body is shaking. Leonid is terrified. Frightened of how to actually make this evening a success.  
I stare out at the city, letting him get some sort of composure back.  
“Moy angel, moye solntse,” he whispers, “means my angel, my sun. Russians very romantic. Cold, long winters,” with a slight chuckle.  
He’s joking to hide his insecurity. I grin back. Should I touch him? Should I wait for a signal or word to go forward?  
“Leonid, this is more than I could have dreamt. It was not expected.”  
“ The night is, how you say, young?” his voice quivering. Again that's unexpected--shyness. How do I behave? I seem calmer than him. Maybe being unsure of what is about to occur aids my composure.  
I expected him to throw his body over mine. To ravish me. But instead, it’s a soft, cradling love. I squirm in my seat, unclear about what is next.  
The hair on my neck stiffens, my fingertips are cold.  
“ My Zolushka, (my Cinderella), do you know French?"  
“Yes fluently.”  
Leonid takes my empty glass and sets it on the table.  
“Lie back, my krasotka (pretty one),” his fingers deftly peel open my shirt buttons, sliding his palms, his lips over my chest. My nipples are tickled by his tongue, pinched between lips.  
Heat sings throughout, and I lift my hips unconsciously, my head rolling side to side.  
Undoing the cuffs on my shirt, Leonid holds my wrists over my head while removing the shirt. His lips pinch my earlobe, my neck. A moan issues from him as he nibbles the skin of my neck, twisting it between his teeth.  
My eyes close, my chest heaves, I lose all sense of time.  
My fingers fumble for my trouser buttons.  
“No, I unwrap you. My cherished podarok (gift), my work of art.”  
The air hits my organ and bending in, whispering into my pubic hair, he says, “Let me see eyes.” I lift my head, my eyelids hooded.  
He breathes in, savoring my odor, allowing me to watch his tongue lick out.  
I inhale sharply, moaning my needs.  
My trousers slide down all the while his tongue tastes each open space of skin.  
“Up my precious one,” and taking my hands he guides me to the bed and the gold silk sheets.  
“Look, my love. Look at your beauty.”  
Overhead a mirror reflects my state of arousal. Face flushed, eyes lidded, and my member erect.  
He leans over, turning my head to face him.  
“I give you my person, my soul,” his body undulating as he strips off his shirt, his leggings.  
Stripping, teasing, shamelessly arousing, he gyrates.  
“I begin here,” his mouth suckling my toes one at a time, as I shiver, whimpering like a baby.  
“ Ahh,” shallow moans, shallow breaths.  
“ My podarok (gift) I do not do for me. This for most zakhvatyvayushchiy (breathtaking) person, most beautiful I ever meet.”  
“Ohhhh, Leonid,--I have to---,” my body shivers with demand, desire, lust.  
“My Zolushka, (my Cinderella), too soon. I have not given you love.”  
Those fingers, those lips, everywhere, everyhow, touch me, caress me, searing into my skin.  
Tears run from my eyes, breath shortens, “please, please. Help me. I--.”  
Mewing sounds fall from my mouth as he moves his tongue to the back of my knees, shivering, leaping when his lips bite my thighs, nibbling closer to my--.  
“Ohh, pleassee, give me anything, help me,” the sweeping desire has me begging, babbling.  
“Look up my love. Look at mirror,” his voice husky.  
His lean dancers’ body splayed open, his member extended.  
Turning around he slides slowly and sensually onto my body, like a snake, pleasure building through my entire being. Losing time, space, my mind empty of all but this moment.  
“Is it enough, my love?”  
My body arches, “Yes you ravishing dancer. Yes, yes, yes.”  
His pelvis gyrates in a wave-like motion, friction against friction.  
“For My Zolushka, (my Cinderella),” his breath whispers into my neck, tongue flicking my ear. “Don't talk. Chuvstvovat' (feel).”  
Wave after wave crashes, surging, bursting, spilling, squeezing my liquid out in spasms.  
Leonid thrusts forward, hips push, roll, curling up, and pulses his desire in wave after wave.  
Our sweet-smelling bodies are tightly bound, our hands interlace. His eyes sparkle, and with a slight kiss he rolls off.  
“No,” I whisper, with a tinge of disappointment, “don’t. I want you near.”  
Lifting up he reaches for the champagne bottle lying on the end table, pours it on a silk napkin and wipes us.  
“Please come lie next to me again,” my voice raspy.  
He rolls off the bed, kneeling beside, his hand holding mine, “My Zolushka(Cinderella) it cannot be,” tears trailing down his cheeks.  
I run a finger along their path and he puts his hand over mine.  
The scent of roses still permeates but now the sweet smell of our intimacy intertwines.  
Picking up a red-ribboned package from the table, he holds it out.  
Tearing off the paper and ribbon, my insides crumble when I see the present.  
“A book. In French, and illustrated. The story of Cinderella. How wonderful!” my voice trailing off. Too much emotion.  
He joins me back on the bed, and he hugs, and I can feel his despair.  
Releasing me, “we must dress because now is midnight and your coach waits. You cannot stay past the time.”  
“Why? Can’t we spend the night--?”  
“You must go. Dress,” his back turned as he arranges his clothing.  
Reluctantly I take up my clothes, fearful of what’s to come.  
Holding the door, the smell of the flowers, the scent of his skin, still in my nostrils, I'm dumbfounded, in a daze.  
I step partway out the door, twist around towards him, “will I see you--.”  
His fingers slide down my cheek, tears running down his, “No, I go back to Russia this night.”  
“No more?” sounding like a little child begging for one more, just one more.  
“Go my Cinderella, before fantasy wears off,” his arm nudges me out, the door closing inch by inch, pushing me along with it until it shuts. I lean against it, my mouth pressing into the wood, “Leonid, Leonid,” and his voice echoes back. “Sherlock, Sherlock.”


	9. A Letter

Sunk in despair, lost in the one night of delight, I retreat into myself. Refusing to continue my law education I enroll in the local college and delve into chemistry and the science of forensics.  
It’s been days since I checked my mail and thumbing through the amount of trash and bills one envelope stands out.  
It’s white with a stamped rose on it. And the smell of roses.  
Tearing it open, my heart thrashing wildly, willing my hands to stay still so the writing isn’t blurred.  
_My Cinderella,  
Forgive my bad English. But it is too personal to have someone write for me.  
When I see you at party, you strike my heart. You are beautiful. Like a Titian painting.  
_

My legs are shaking, and I fold my body into my chair. Taking the paper to my nose, I smell, trying to will him out of the stationary and into reality.  


 _I want so much to show love, to be in your arms. But my schedule, my time with the press and my dancing would not permit. We had one short night. I had to, my krasivyy, that means beautiful one, give us exceptional time. But when I know you have no knowledge of sex, I determine to give you gift. Two gifts. One, my Zolushka, my Cinderella, is the book. And other was to pour my love to you with touch. Love should be kind and sensitive to other persons need. You took my heart, and I give back. I am sorry that time so short. You always have my affection, will always be in dreams. Sweet lyubov, love. Leonid._  
How long I sit there, the letter dropped into my lap, dry-eyed, I cannot say. Leonid Popov has changed how I view my sexuality. I’m a gay man, a homosexual. I need a fresh start, one very dissimilar from what I’m living in now.


	10. Starting Anew

Leaving my luxuriously appointed flat that mummy has established for me, I’ve found accommodations in an old house. The second floor flat contains two bedrooms and one bathroom. The kitchen is sizable enough to house my lab glassware. Cooking is not my area, and most of the time, I order takeaway food. My elderly landlady has taken pity on me and will, on occasion, supplement my cabinets or my refrigerator.  
Mother requests my presence for dinner as is her usual way. “Sherlock, you’re late again,” she sighs with a bit of reproach. As I step into the parlor I’m greeted by John Watson.

Waves of melancholy and a hunger to hear Russian spoken by a certain ballet dancer assaults my senses.  
John’s face is lit up, his eyes merry. After kissing Mother on the cheeks, John leans up to embrace me in an awkward hug.  
“Hey, you. Good to see you again,” he says, slapping my back.  
“Angela Washett,” a plump redhead steps next to us, her hand on my shoulder, “I’m glad to meet you.”  
Dinner is on the table, and the usual small talk begins.  
“ I’m an x-ray technician at Barts Hospital,” Angela addresses herself to John. Apparently, she finds me as humdrum as I do her. I take notice of Johns’ voice. It’s a comforting, soothing delivery.  
“Are you interested in becoming a doctor, John?” Angela asks.  
“I once did but had no money for university. I fell into this job as an agent because one of my pub fellows knew someone. I was on my last dollar, not wishing to live with my parents. And being thirty-two, I don’t have the drive to study anymore.”  
“You could always become an aide at the clinic. I daresay they always need the help,” she says. Angela is flirting with John, and I don’t enjoy the attention she’s dispensing to him.  
“John, what brings you to this table tonight?”His smile lights my soul.  
“Your mother has been throwing small parties to assist struggling actors. I’ve been a visitor more than once. When your mother mentioned you’d be here tonight, I asked to come.” He lowers his voice and leans closer, “Why don’t we meet at the Biltmore Cafe Wednesday at nine? For tea?”  
Nodding approval, the rest of the evening goes well. Angela tries to renew communication with me, and I answer in brief notes. I can’t identify the logic behind my absorption with John. He’s not the most stylish nor the sharpest thinking.  
Angela chats with my father as tea and scones are offered while we sit in the parlor. John, mother, and I sit to one side and discuss the latest play openings. John’s smile lights my sight.  
“My Sherlock,” patting my knee, “refuses to join his brother in government. What can I make of him?” mother sighs.  
I huff, “please, mother, you know how stunting that is to my brain. I refuse to sit behind a desk all day, and besides, this conversation must be boring to John.”  
Shaking her head, Mother sighs,” Oh dear. You have always been at variance with the family.  
Standing up, he brushes his trousers, and John says, “ I should leave. I have an early appointment tomorrow, and,” chuckling, “must get my beauty sleep. See you Wednesday then?” and he clasps my arm in both of his. I fully expect to be enveloped in his arms, but a handshake is it.  
To describe the man called Sherlock Holmes is impossible. His intelligence is beyond belief. His awareness of human emotion, though it is limited. Very childlike. Leonid was right. Sherlock could easily be tempted emotionally by anyone wishing to take advantage of his money and station.  
That innocence has me drawn to him. To stroke his cheek. To ruffle those dark curls. I had been drawn to him the first we met, but due to my relationship with a young lady, I didn’t attempt any further communication. I’ve known for some time that I could enjoy the company of either sex but gravitated towards the female. Socially it was easier. I knew that Leonid was captivated by Sherlock, but his career was most important in his life. And the Russian public would never allow him to have a man for a live-in partner.


	11. Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry comes into Sherlock's life

“Sorry to be late,” John says, pulling out his chair and removing his coat.  
“I ordered tea and a variety of biscuits,” cataloging Johns's movements. Strong muscled but not overly so.  
“ Good. I have news for you. On Friday, you will meet with a detective Lestrade at New Scotland Yard, and he’ll discuss the technicalities of working with him.”  
“Why would you--,” overcome with wonder at his remembering.  
“It’s nothing,” hiding his emotions by looking at the surroundings.  
“I have information from Mother for you. She and Angela have arranged for an interview at Barts as an intern. If convenient, you could enroll in night school.”  
There are a few moments of silence, and both of us started to giggle.  
“It’s like we have each other's backs,” he gives me a look, his eyes flashing amusement.  
Picking up my cup and looking over the top I broach a subject that has been foremost for the entire day,  
“Is Mister Popov’s tour going well?” crossing my legs, feigning indifference.  
Chuckling, John proclaims, “ Still the top dancer in eastern Europe. And no, he’s not coming to England anytime soon.” He leans over the table, closer, “he was emotionally strung out on the ride to the airport. What did you do to him?”  
What did I do to him? Instead of trying to field the question I stare out the window, seeing nothing. It’s what he did to me that continually haunts.  
An enigma, that’s what Sherlock is. I full well know that something remarkable took place the night the two men met. Leonid was using his mobile phone a few days before, texting, calling. Agitated one minute, laughing the next. Was there an assignation of some sort? Could both men have--? Was this young man sitting across from me in love with the dancer? In lust maybe, but in love after two meetings? Hey, I say to myself, anything can happen. It’s emotions after all.  
John expresses his concern about my welfare. Is this interest related to mothers' passion for her cause? Can he be bootlicking? To what end? John is partial to women's advances, and his repertoire of female partners has been impressive. No one lasting longer than a year; he struggles with a lengthy relationship. Still and all, I discover a certain command of his person that captivates and begs the question--would he regard a maneuver on my part as an outrage or laugh it off?  
“Hey there, Sherlock? Are you still here or dreaming?” Waving his hand in front of my face, I blink and pick up my tea.  
Is that faraway look for Leonid? This desperate need to find the answer shocks me. Why do I need to find an answer? What is it that draws me to him, and why should I worry that he’s going to be hurt? I am captivated by his--oh, his everything. Leaping at the chance, I square my shoulders, “How would you like to join me next week at the opening of a play and after? No need for fancy dress. A suit will do. How about it?” Thrilled at his smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling, he nods his yes.  
My introduction to Detective Inspector Lestrade has led to an uneasy partnership between the police and myself. There are opportunities where John contrives to accompany me to crime scenes and offer his interpretation.  
It has been a torridly hot six days for London and temperaments are on edge all over the town.  
I’m on my knees on the floor of a warehouse by the docks. Blood is scattered over a perimeter of four meters.  
“Two, no, three people killed here. but where are the bodies?”  
“Mister Holmes, can I help you?”  
I look around and tiptoeing around the red stains is a tall, slightly bald man. I squint, and ask sourly, “Where is Lestrade?”  
He shrugs, stops, leans down, sneering, “what's the matter? I’m not good enough for you? Henry Falconer, Inspector,” standing up and walking towards the other members of the force.  
“The bodies are in the dumpster. Come and see,” and walks out the large garage door.  
A pompous idiot, I deduce, following him. He’s around the side of the building before I can catch up. Been a member of the police for all his life. A family institution. One follows another into the force. Old enough to be my father or uncle, he’s elegantly dressed in a black suit with a dark yellow pinstripe shirt, open at the neck. No pins of merit but a simple red rosebud is tucked in his boutonniere. A red rose!  
We both come to a standstill--he wets his lips, I slowly blink. A force draws both of us towards the other. A few inches between us, we are riveted, which compels me to reach out and touch his chest.  
“Would you like a cup of tea, Henry?” unsure, my voice sounding as if it’s in a tunnel. What possesses me is beyond my perception. I don’t like him. But--his--something. A magnetism that holds me tightly in his aura.  
“Absolutely, Sherlock,” and yelling over his shoulder, “Marty, take care of everything here. I’ll be available by phone if needed.”  
Silently we walk away from the crime scene, I trailing behind, pretending to dust off my coat. In reality, my mind is rushing, plunging into a dark hole I can’t examine.  
“Sherlock, there’s a small place down the street--.”  
“I was going to invite you to my flat for tea,” thinking, no not thinking, just doing.  
“Good enough,” turning round, his questioning of my motive is written in the movement of his body. He steps closer, his hand reaches out, then drops at his side. “Lead on.”  
My brain is muddled, so intoxicated by the adrenaline rushing through my body.  
Entering the flat I’m disoriented. My hands don’t know where to put themselves, my feet tied to the floor.  
And then, moving forward with a decisiveness I find frightening, my palms push up against his cheeks, my lips slam against his.  
Henry’s mouth opens, letting my tongue in to survey, to catalog.  
Suddenly my mind rocks, flustered, I push him from me and my breath heaves.  
“What the hell, Sherlock? Why stop?”  
Raising my hand as if to ward him off, “Henry, I don’t know--.”  
“Yes, you do. You felt it the same as I did. And even now--”  
“No,” standing to my full height, backing off.  
There’s an absence of sound. All except for the ticking of the clock, the traffic outside, the beats of my heart.  
Slowly, ever slowly, I face the person that I only met an hour ago. Face him and see black eyes. Leonid!  
But it’s not the ballet dancer before me. An interloper in my flat.  
“Henry, I don’t--.”  
“ I know. I’m just as confused as you are,” his breath as shallow as mine. “Maybe that cup of tea would be a good idea. That would improve conditions,” and I lope to the kitchen before he resists.  
My hands are shaky. Blonde hair and black eyes. But, Sherlock, you didn’t notice until after you--. Did my inner self, my impulsive ego act on it before I became conscious of the impact?  
He has a lined face, his nose slightly bent, obviously broken at some point. His cologne is woodsy, manly. Cerruti 1881. There probably is a little flab around his middle.  
I’m light-headed, unable to focus on anything other than the person in the next room.  
The teapot and two cups are sat on the table and I sit in my chair while he occupies the sofa.  
We pour and drink in a quiet reserve.  
“Sherlock--Henry,” both articulating our names at once.  
“I defer to you, Henry.”  
Putting the cup carefully on the table, he leans towards me. I defensively angle away.  
“It seems we have some sort of sexual connection. To be honest, I want to shag you senseless right now,” giggling nervously.  
“Well,” my mouth in a wide grin, “I have come to the same conclusion. This is not my modus operandi. Accosting anyone in a licentious manner is--,” is so far beyond what I would have ever considered, my mind concludes.  
Chuckling, “I love your high-handed talk,” sitting back, folding his legs, trying to hide his erection.  
“And where do we go from here, Sherlock Holmes? Do we have a go or do I walk out that door?”  
Bewitched by not only his physicalness but my inability to use my mental capabilities to weigh the situation.  
“To resist our chemistry would be scandalous. Might I put forward a plan with an objective?”Careful Sherlock. You are unfamiliar with how to traverse this landscape.  
He nods, but those black eyes bore into my thought processes. Giving me very little to think upon.  
“Shall we arrange lunch tomorrow at a restaurant and a stroll downtown?”  
“Clever, clever man,” he says, nodding his head, “ Out in public. No hand-holding, kissing or shagging. Okay, I’ll bite. Tomorrow at the Whitehall at two and an ‘air quote’ stroll,” standing and advancing toward the door. “How about--”  
“I presume you desire a closeness. I think not. It would lead--.”  
“Okay, I get it. I’ll see you tomorrow then,” and rushes down the steps.  
Tumbling onto the sofa my heartbeat becomes sluggish. I’m chilled. A strange foreboding, a warning within. Be careful Sherlock Holmes. But that message is soon forgotten. Tomorrow--at two.


	12. An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What in the world is Henry doing in Sherlock's life?

I arrive at the Whitehall, fifteen minutes and four seconds too soon, palms clammy. It took an amazing twenty minutes and numerous clothing changes until I finalized my costume. Shirt of emerald green silk, pocket square to match with a three-piece iron colored gray suit. I deliberated with tie on or tie off. Tie off with two buttons undone on the shirt. Matalan slip-on shoes and gray socks.  
A smile contradicts the tightness in my chest as he slips into his chair next to me instead of across. His hand multiplies that tightness when it lands and strokes my thigh.  
“Thought you wouldn’t come. Thought--but you’re here.”  
More so I think, afraid to lift his hand off my thigh. I can but nod and pick up the menu. Can I eat? Why this turmoil?  
The waiter leaves after pouring water and we confront each other.  
“Who goes first?” he states, his black eyes boring into my bones.  
“What is there to say, Henry? Why not let the cards fall where they may?”  
“Oh, ho! Do you have anything profound or--?”  
“ Yes. Do not take the liberty to think that I would--?”  
He stops me by squeezing my thigh, “I believe we’ve both been on the fence and off more than once since yesterday,” which garners a shake of my head towards the affirmative.  
“Let’s not talk about it. Just let it happen. Whatever it is. What say you? I’ve been down this road before. And I absolutely believe in a purely sexual partnership. No commitments other than fucking. Agreed?” his hand squeezing my leg.  
I place my fingers over his. No talk needed.  
During dinner it’s Henry that engages the conversation, keeping away from the personal, and towards our mutual love for breaking down and solving offenses against the law. It’s a spirited repartee.  
Our walk consists of the moments when we can touch. Hands reaching for a book at the small bookstore, catching the tea kettle before it hits the ground, the handing off of persimmons from the fruit stand. We stop for gelato and sit in the corner at the saloon, thighs hitting. It’s a prelude to the end result.  
Without giving voice we start back to my flat, the tension building with every footfall bringing us closer to the final solution.  
Once the door closes, our clothes are strewn on the floor as we enter the bedroom and stumble onto the bed, crashing, shoving, and tangling.  
Legs tangle, arms wrestle to differing positions, lips collide, chests heaving, tongue whipping.  
It’s over within minutes, rolling off, heartbeats slowing.  
I sit up, he leans over, sighs and hops to the parlor to come back with his trousers.  
“Are you going?”  
“No,” he chuckles and hands me a joint.  
Without a concern I let him light me.  
Sleep follows and I awake to his body over mine, riding, grinding, twisting.  
Another smoke, and in the dark he asks, “Why are you doing this? I am an old man indulging in a fling. But why you?”  
“Is it a fling? Could you step out of this flat and never come back?” blowing smoke out.  
He giggles, “that’s an insane question to ask.Give me a few hours and I can whip you again. Have you ever been fucked? I mean in the rear?”  
I knew he was contemplating this action. His finger experimentally wandering over there this last go-round, uncertain when I squirmed.  
“I don’t care for the idea. But--.”  
“There are no buts, excuse the pun. If you don’t then we’ll leave that out of the repertoire for now.”  
I wake to see sunshine and the bed empty except for a note. ‘Will see you soon’  
What does that mean? Is he done with me? I could scavenge his office number from the computer but I’m not eager to be seen as impatient.  
A number of times, my finger taps out the digits, stopping before it rings.  
Paralyzed by shame, pretending his absence is tolerable I’ve found a modicum of comfort in marijuana--and John.  



	13. He's Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of porn.

“Okay, be honest with me Sherlock. What is going on in your life? I do smell the weed you know! Why?” as we sit at a pub, each with a pint.  
“Don’t be meddlesome. You’re not my father.”  
I’m feeling guilty and push off the stool, “I have to go. Call me,” and I withdraw so quickly I barely hear John’s calling my name.  
My long legs propel me down the street, unthinking where or why.  
Leonid--John--Henry. Men the age of my father.  
At the flat I lie on the sofa, smoking one joint after another. Relaxed, time slows, time is forgotten. My dreams are delusional.  
Three shapes, men, indistinct, naked, genitals engorged, whispering, calling, beckoning. Fathers figure, large, in the background, his voice indistinguishable, but threatening.  
I’m woken by someone shaking my body. And a voice.  
“Sherlock, get up. Come on, dear boy. Get yourself together.”  
It’s Henry, kneeling next to the sofa, prodding my body.  
Shaking my head, clearing out the chimeras I sit up, holding myself together.  
“When was the last time you were up and about” pulling me up and into the bathroom. He strips me, turning on the water, and I step under, shivering. He’s in the shower with me, naked, and I'm taken aback. Wrapping his arms around my waist he grips my member bringing to its full length.  
“Come on, you. Let’s get you dried,” dragging me out, toweling both of us. Drawing me onto the bed, he straddles my hips, gathers both our genitals, and engages in a vigorous pumping.  
“Where have you been?” after post-coitus had worn off and reality set in.  
Sighing deeply, “Do I have to account for every moment I’ve not been at your side?” miffed.  
Just as equally irked I shoot back, “you could have phoned, left a note, sent a carrier pigeon. And how did you get into my flat? I never left a key.”  
He twiddles his fingers, “lock picking, my detective friend. Surely you’ve had to do it more than once.”  
Sitting up, going for his trousers, “ but if what you expect is an ordinary relation then I’ll go,” hunting for his shirt.  
“Wait, wait. I’m sorry. Come back here,” patting the mattress.  
Huffing he sits, trousers still around him, he takes my hand and pats it, like a father soothing his child.  
“I had a busy time at work and leave it at that. I’m so sorry. You’re right. I could have given you some notice,” and he peels the clothes off and lies next to me.  
“What if we order in and spend the rest of the day watching movies?” he states, looking at the ceiling.  
Chinese is dispatched by phone and once it arrives we plant ourselves on the sofa to eat.  
“Leave the telly off for now. Let’s eat in quiet,” Henry asks and I comply.  
I’m ready to wipe the dipping sauce off my fingers when Henry restrains me and enters one finger of mine into his mouth.  
Lips parting, breath shallow, hardness in my groin.  
“Do you like sucking cock?” his breath just as hollow.  
“I’ve never--.”  
Before I go on his zipper is undone, flap open, his penis raised.  
Stressing, hesitating, he pushes me to the floor.  
“Young man. Time for you to taste one of the finer things in life.”  
I sit back, recoiling, flinching from him.  
Laughing at my peevishness, “don’t like the idea huh? How about I do you?” reaching for me, I scuttle away.  
“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a jerk and a snob. Surely you’ve done-- Never mind. If you don’t want I won’t,” testy himself.  
After minutes have gone by I’m still sitting on the floor, and he says, “Come up here,” beckoning, his features softening.  
I scramble to the sofa and he pulls me onto his lap, kissing my face and neck.  
“ Why are you with me?” I ask, needing a verbal answer.  
“You’re the fuckingist, ” licking my neck, “sexiest,” biting my ear, “seductive man I’ve been around in years,” my lower lip worried between his.  
Cringing, I fall off his lap, hands clutching at my stomach, “Is that all it is? Is there no other qualification?”  
“You’re asking if I love your brains, your brilliance? Yes, I do. But when it comes down to it, we both know that this relationship is driven by sex. Wasn’t it the magnetism of sex that drew us the first time? We hadn’t spoken and yet we knew what was wanted. Unabashed sex.”  
He’s established our association in plain words.  
I grin, “peace?” He’s lifted me onto his lap, his hand pawing my crotch.  
“Let me at you again. On this couch or on the floor. Don’t care where. My cock is hard. I’ve got some smokes for us.”  
It’s sometime in the early afternoon before my mind is back on the ground.  
I step out of the shower, wearing trousers and a loose dressing-gown tied at my waist when I hear someone on the steps. Sighing, thinking it’s good that Henry left an hour ago because the steps belong to brother Mycroft.  
Slouching on the sofa, turning on my laptop I want so much to ignore him. He snaps the laptop closed, sits in the hardback chair and grunts.  
“You will listen to me brother mine. I have heard about your escapades with one Henry Falconer.”  
“It's no concern of yours what I do or who I do it with,” tapping my fingers on the table, growling.  
“ It’s relevant when my stupid brother is--,” barking.  
“Shut up, Mycroft,” slamming my fist on the table, the laptop bouncing off, “I’m not a child--,”  
“You’re behaving like one,” restraining his temper. “First that fling with a dancer and now this--this.”  
Sighing dejectedly, cognizant he won’t withdraw until he’s given voice to his wisdom, I lean back to hear him out.  
“Tell me what you have to divulge and then go away.”  
“Henry Falconer is well known in the police department. His exploits with young men are documented.”  
“I know that,” shaking my head, “ I did my research. I’m of age anyhow.”  
He leans forward, “Sherlock, why?”  
“You’ve warned me. He can’t hurt me.” The knowledge that I’m being manipulated has begun to be a concern.  
“I can ascertain that you are using pot again. The room reeks of it,” standing up, he timidly pats my shoulder. “Please be advised that Henry Falconer has no regard for you except where--,”  
“Yes, yes. I understand. Now leave. Go away.”  
A sinking feeling, a heaviness, my chin on my chest, I fold my hands around myself, rocking back and forth. Mycroft is on point. I’ve deceived myself. As a trapper waits for his prey I wait.  
A message in my mailbox. ‘How about dinner Friday at Whitehall. Call me at the office.’  
I call, but my hand shakes as I punch the numbers, “Come to the flat instead of dinner.”  
“Hey! Have it your way, you sexy animal.”  
I hang up and wait.  
I open the door and he leans in for a kiss.  
“Come upstairs,” turning and walking first.  
“I am afraid of what you’re planning,” his voice twinkling with anticipation.  
Sitting in my chair, my legs crossed, elbows on the arms, I indicate he sits down  
“Now you’ve got me flummoxed,” crossing his arms, still standing.  
“Henry, as much as I enjoy our--sessions I believe it’s time has come.”  
“You’re throwing me over? Another man?” querulous.  
“I felt it was rude to undo this association by phone. Thank you for your time,” and nod to the door, turning my back.  
He’s behind me, one hand on my ass kneading, his other pulls my hair from my neck and he bites, having me jump and breathe in quickly.  
“Once more,” his words breathed against my skin. “Anything you want. Only once more.”  
“Let’s not make a confrontation of this. I would like to shake hands and be relieved of your company.”  
Turning to face him, pushing him away.  
Brushing his hands down his suit, he straightens and extends his hand for a shake. He pulls me towards him, but quickly I resist and smack his shoulder.  
"I am adamant. I want to part friends but if not---."  
Taking a deep breath he pats my shoulder and reluctantly, “Well then. It's goodbye I guess” and walks out.  
Relief tinged with a melancholy takes over the remainder of the evening. I'm a solitary soul once again.  



	14. Here Come John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enters Sherlocks life

I'm devastated that any sort of contact with Sherlock had died. My attraction towards him was more than chummy. Romance did enter my head, but he blocked me out of his life. Was there someone else?  
It surprises me when I get a visit from Mycroft. He's an imposing figure. Most are unnerved by him but, for me, he’s a blowhard. Too full of himself.  
“Have a seat,” he tells me. I'm in my own flat and he's ordering me about!  
He seats himself, straightens the crease of his trousers, clears his throat, “Mister Watson, I request your assistance.”  
Does he really need my help? Me, of all people? Aha, must have something to do with Sherlock  
“My dear brother Sherlock--,”  
“Yes, I've met him, as you know. Get to the point.”  
“You had, as I recall, a certain fondness for the boy--.”  
Cutting him off, “he's a man. Passed boyhood quite a while ago.”  
“Hmm, yes,” his lips pursed, not kindly.  
“Make contact with him. I surmise he could use a wise friend.”  
An unexpected compliment from this older brother. I don't ask the whys but shake my head in the affirmative.  
I don't think Sherlock would appreciate my dropping in. He would suspect a sympathy move. He would guess that Mycroft sent me on this mission.  
I call Inspector Lestrade and explain my situation. “The next time we have a case with a body I'll call you first. Then the man. How's that?" he says, sounding more amused than annoyed.  
“Hello, John. Have nothing else to do?” Sherlock’s voice cuts across the buzz of the police voices. I’m in the process of examining a mutilated older man, half draped over a chair. We’re in the apartment, the blood on the floor and a knife nearby.  
Lestrade steps over, “I asked John here. He's gotten good at analyzing the bodies. Give him space.”  
I look up at Sherlock and he throws a glance. You're an idiot, is the gesture meant for me, which I ignore.  
“Would you like some tea? There’s a--.”  
“Chinese would be good,” stalking off before I could reply yes or no.  
At the restaurant Sherlock leans back in his chair, tipping it, “did my brother offer you money to accost me?”  
He's too damn smart!  
I shake no, but he smirks knowingly  
“Next time he requests anything of you, ask for remuneration. You let him off too easy,” smiling.  
Thrilled at the thought of ‘Doctor’ before my name I spend all my available hours studying. Of course, I have to continue as an agent in order to pay bills and eat. But also I’ve begun to help in sorting out criminal activities with Sherlock and Lestrade.  
“Would it be easier for you to focus if you didn’t have to fixate on money? You could concentrate just as well at my flat. I have a second bedroom and--?” I don’t have to think about the offer and within the week I’ve moved in. Working only part-time and receiving some remuneration from clients of Sherlocks I’m able to graduate with top grades and press on to the end result--doctor.  
It’s been a hell of a night. Tired from the evenings’ adventure, we trod up the stairs and I throw my wet jacket into the shower. Sherlock’s coat lies on the floor and I pick it up, shake it out and set it over the kitchen chair.  
“Sherlock,” miffed, throwing a towel to him as he lies on the sofa, “at least dry your hair. You’ve wet the cushion.”  
Sitting up his ruffles the towel through his unruly curls, and unenthusiastically stands and steps to the kitchen.  
“Let me make the tea this time.”  
I swivel around, amazed at the statement. I have to watch this. He puts the kettle on and giggling I have to say, “It does need water in it, you know.”  
“Sit, John. This project is simple. Add water to the kettle and boil said water.”  
I lean against the table, cross my arms.  
“Where’s the tea bags?” the man pivots, opening cabinets and shutting them just as fast.  
With a sigh of exasperation, I reach up to the only cabinet he hasn’t touched and pick out a box.  
“Earl Grey good for you?”  
“Yes, I’m not picky, you know,” he answers curtly.  
“Oh fuck you aren’t,” not able to tolerate his quirky answers.  
Sherlock stares and my lips tighten while my teeth clench.  
Still staring he turns his head one way then another. What the hell is going? He moves within a breaths length and his lips brush mine. So startled that I allow it to continue. His hand is lying lightly on my shoulder, our bodies touch and I’m thrown off balance.  
The whistle of the kettle brings the moment into focus.  
Pouring the tea into the cups and inserting the bags the unsaid hangs heavy.  
Clearing my throat, deciding I should brooch the subject, I ask, “ what was that about?”  
“Let’s have our tea. We’re unquestionably too tired to think in a straightforward manner,” his manner brusque. Back to the Sherlock, I know. But, now I question. Do I know Sherlock? Know the inside of him?  
Legs wobbly, hands holding tight to the cup I take my usual place in my armchair by the unlit fireplace.  
Throwing more logs on and igniting the kindling he sits across from me.  
“I’ve discovered--.” I see no reason to help him. He has to tell me why he did what he did.  
“John Hamish Watson, I have a strong affection for you. I am smitten, admiring, craving your attention. Is your regard for me the same?”  
Even in this dim light, I can see he’s pale, terror-stricken.  
Sputtering, “I um, well, uh, yes. You could say that. And where is this going?”  
Concentrating on his teacup, “ More kissing?”  
Amused, the uneasiness falling, replaced by a tenderness, “and if that ‘kissing’ as you put it exceeds that? What then?”  
I know I’m doing a bit of teasing but it’s entertaining to watch Sherlock squirm.  
“ Then John,” and bouncing off his chair, his teacup placed on the table, “we’ll have to proceed to bed.”  
I choke, drop the cup on the carpet and sputter.  
“Come Watson. It should not take a herculean effort to deduce how kissing could initiate more intimate relations. Shall we begin?” his hand open-palmed, waiting for me to take it. And I do.  
He’s such a child, so fragile when it comes to social interactions or close encounters. It’s not easy pandering to this insecurity all the time. To most, to the outside world, he’s an arrogant, beautiful man but to those close to him we know he’s one step away from curling into a ball, retreating from the world. We’ve now progressed to lovers, and it's a constant battle to reassure Sherlock that this is real. That I love him.  



	15. It's Leonid Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonid is arriving in England and John has to let Sherlock know

One evening, the rain non-stop, the wind nipping heavily at the trees and moving anything unshackled along the walkway, I’m discontent. Restless. I’ve tried a new soil experiment that is leading nowhere. I’ve read the rest of the medical book John had lent me.  
“I have some interesting news for you,” my lover states, taking off his soaked jacket after walking up the steps to the warmth of our flat.  
“Your ballet friend, Leonid is going to dance in England again,” John’s voice, with a tinge of insecurity, walking into the kitchen.  
My pulse quickens, tingling feelings run up my spine, and I close the laptop, slapping it down.  
Jumping up I wheel around, pick up my violin and commence playing Cinderella’s ballet theme.  
“Haven’t heard that one. What is it?” John enters with his warmed up dinner.  
I pretend I haven’t heard his question and continue my piece.  
“He’ll be at the Windsor Hotel if you’re interested. That is if you want to--” having to raise my voice over his playing. I know full well what I’m getting myself into. Forcing myself to be enthused because I have to. Better to let him know, although we have never given voice to the situation with Leonid, it has always been there. Leonid holds a certain fascination for my Sherlock. If Sherlock found that Leonid had come and gone without my saying anything he would take it out on my person. I have to let this happen. This meeting.  



	16. The Dancer and Sherlock

As my fingers tread over the neck of the violin, I see in my mind the images, the smells, the experience of that specific occasion which has been retained and examined repeatedly.  
“Welcome back to England,” giddy, lightheaded as the door swings open.  
Leonid Popov has aged very well. A few new lines, a few more grey hairs but his body is still physically tight.  
I’m concealing my discomfort, my hands deep in my coat pockets. He teases my coat off, nipping at my neck.  
“You are still beautiful one. You never change,” opening the door wider to grant entry.  
I rock back on my heels, vulnerable.  
“Moya lyubov,(my love) take seat. Here,” patting next to him on the sofa. "We once had ballet of our own, did we not?" his fingers running through my hair, kissing my neck.  
“I am sorry I not contact you. I have been here for almost a week. I thought, I felt--.”  
“What? That I would forget you? Wouldn’t want to be with you?”  
“Forgive me moya lyubov,” his head hung, “it too much emotion for me.”  
I hold his hand, the two of us strangled within our emotions.  
" I still have your book," my voice quavering.  
"Sherlock, moya lyubov' (my love), milyy rebenok (sweet child) Cinderella is not mine. It was for you. A gift.”  
"What did I give to you? Nothing?" avoiding eye contact, aware that my insides are swirling.  
"No, no, no moya Lyubov' (my love)," lifting my head, “look at me. See the love I still carry for you.”  
Dark, dark eyes that shine, emit so much emotion, so much love.  
" You are love of mine. You take my heart. If times were different, I would live with you. As lovers. But not to be. I have to hide under woman's skirt. I had to marry. Katchina lovely woman. But no candle to you."  
" You--married? stiffening, moving, giving space between our bodies.  
“It best for career. I cannot love man as I want. And even you, nevinnyy ( innocent one) will have to be careful. Keep in under sheets.” he laughs caustically, looking down at the carpet," In Russia, we grow old too soon. Life is not easy. For me, it is good. I travel, see other countries, customs. But, loving same sex is dangerous. I could lose everything.”  
“Would you ever think of defecting” shifting his body closer to touch my thigh, my breath fast.  
He trails his fingers under my hair, around my neck, and my breath skips.  
“No, family would be denied certain privileges. Cannot do,” fingers unbuttoning my shirt, his lips nibble at my neck.  
“I wish you--.”  
“No, krasotka (pretty one), our time is over. No more wishing. We both have someone waiting. You cannot change, how you say, what is meant to be.”  
I’ve asked, no begged to join him on the ride to the airport. Almost to our destination, he says, “ Doctor Watson. He is your fate, your kismet.”  
“What if, suppose you are my fate.”  
“Sherlock. Like Cinderella, you run from what is in front of you. Can you still not see prince in him?”  
His dance troupe is spread out in the airport waiting room, chatting, laughing, waiting for the announcement to board the plane. Bags, suitcases, the smell of perfume, the hugs, the laughter. His people, his ensemble, his countrymen.  
“A kiss, a hug. Would that be so appalling?” I whisper, standing as close as he allows.  
“My friends, all dancers, know I like men. I do not push it in faces. Not nice.”  
Stepping away from the crowd, he says, “Follow.”  
There’s a corner of the terminal where his fellow dancers are not visible. He takes me in his arms.  
I embrace him, kissing his neck, his cheek. My hands drift onto his chest, hungry, craving him.  
“Sherlock, no, no. Be brave moy angel (my angel).”  
“I want one more kiss--” my fingers combing through his blonde hair.  
He gently pushes me to one side but I try to regain my position, to clutch him.  



	17. An Accident?

“Sherloooocccckkk,” and something heavy collides into my body, pushing me heavily into Leonid.  
I stagger, fall against him as shouting, yelling and collide in my senses.  
"Nooo, noo," leaning into Leonid.  
Time slows, my legs give way as I slide down his body, on my knees, my vision hazy, my name being called. Indistinct voices, indistinct bodies enclose me, “Leonid.”  
Wakening. A babble of voices. Leonid, the most recognizable. Throbbing, pounding. The pain in my legs, my back. From deep inside I’m moaning, crying. I can’t think, everything is unstable, voices indistinct.  
There’s the impression of being lifted and being deposited on a hard surface.  
Cold. I'm cold and shivering. Covered with warmth, blankets, head lifted.  
Moaning, calling weakly, “help me, I hurt, help me.” Someone is talking. Making shushing noises.  
“Yes, yes it will be okay. We'll fix it. Shhh! Can you hear me? Don't move my sladkiy, (sweet one),” Leonid's voice, whispers in my ear. My eyes open, I see his face shimmering in and out, tears spilling, “I must leave you. John is here. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Goodbye, my Zolushka.”  
He kisses my lips and steps out of my sight.  
“Leonid,” I whisper, I call, my hand groping for his, finding nothing.  
“It's John,” his face focusing above, “A baggage cart got loose and hit you in the back. I've given you something for the pain. It will knock you out. We're going to transport you to the hospital,” the last words fading away into darkness.  
I am diagnosed with two broken knees and a sprained back. Recovering in the hospital has been unbearable. I have no patience with the staff and if it wasn’t for John they would have kicked me out or put me in isolation. I’m finally ready to go home. Sliding carefully out of bed, John holds me under the arms, “I really wish you’d give it more time. You don’t need to go home yet.”  
Huffing, “yes, I do. I have you to pamper me back to health.”  
In all this time of surgeries and healing, we both have never mentioned the one thing hanging between us.  
Leonid!  
John takes my clothes out of the closet, “I’ve anticipated your wanting to leave, and you are already signed out. Just have to put your signature on the papers as we go.”  
At home, I slump on the sofa, lie down and ask, “Leonid was not injured, was he? I don’t remember much other than--.”  
Sitting next to me, he removes the wisp of a curl from my forehead, “No. If you had been--embracing--he might have--well, you know. He had to be forcibly taken from your arms. He didn’t want to abandon you. Are you ready to talk about it? I know Lestrade has taken down all the information but do you know--.”  
Scoffing,” of course I know. The MacFee brothers were upset with me because I took down their father. Sent him to prison.”  
“Upset wasn’t the word. They wanted to maim you. Not kill you, mind you, but make sure you couldn’t walk.”  
“They knew I’d be at the airport because they were tracking my movements through Leonid. If I hadn’t moved, if I stayed close to him--he might--,” my hands over my face.  
“Sherlock, it’s over.”  
“No, it’s not. There is Leonid.”  
Reaching out to place my hand on John's arm, “Can you accept an apology from me? I’ve not--.”  
His fingers over my mouth, “Shush. Whatever it is or was is done. Don’t need to go into specifics,” chuckling, “actually would prefer not to hear details. Leonid is a special person in your life. Whatever was, was. Let’s leave it like that.”  
Smoothing my cheek, my hair, “You’re with me now, and that’s good enough.”


	18. The Years Have Gone By

Is it a cliche to utter the words, ‘how the years have flown?’ But now, the aroma of disinfectant, the chatter of doctors and nurses, gliding wheels of gurneys are the everyday sounds and smells of a hospital. The hospital that houses one John Watson, my companion, and love.  
John's sister sits across the bed, whispering words, silly words from their childhood. Words to dispel the quietness of the man, her brother, my lover lying, shriveled into almost nothingness. The staff, the doctors, look on with sympathy, quiet speaking. John's symptoms of cancer came on suddenly and ferociously. Even with the best of the best, there was nothing to do but sit and wait.  
It took a little less than two years from the moment of discovery to John Hamish Watson’s death. I miss my flatmate. I miss my partner in love. There are times, even though he's been gone five years, I can sit across from his chair, envision him in it, hear his voice, the slurping of his tea, his annoyance at my disorganization.  
At this point, in my late forties, I’m lost and alone. Surrounded by emptiness. Emptiness in the flat on Baker Street. Johns’s books, medical and science fiction are still on the shelves. The James Bond DVDs, the teapot and all those small items that made John Watson the man I loved. I cannot rid myself of his presence. Preserving three of his jumpers, although his scent is long gone from them.  
I revisit cocaine to deaden the grief, but my body, older than when I used in my teens, rebels. And it warrants a visit, scolding, and the threat of rehab from my brother Mycroft.


	19. The Dancer Is In London

The doorbell rings, jumping me out of my reverie.  
It is late afternoon, I get up, sighing. Sluggishly I take myself down the steps, and reluctantly open the door. I must look laughable, my eyebrows up in the air and my mouth wide open.  
“You’re an apparition? You can’t be!”  
"Sherlock. My Cinderella. Can I come in?” his accent is still very strong.  
Can't move. Can't breathe! It's Leonid! My tongue won't work, and I suck in a breath. A finger pokes at my chest.  
“Poor John. Too soon he died,” literally pushing me aside to climb the stairs while I weakly follow behind.  
“What are you doing here? In England!” Of all the opening statements I could have made that was the most laughable!  
I move aside to let him enter and trail after him up the stairs. He looks around the parlor and sits--in John's chair.  
In reality that's the only available place, he can sit beside my armchair. The desk chair and sofa are covered in papers, books, and clothes.  
“My Cinderella, is okay?” His eyes move aimlessly surveying the clutter. Dishes with unfinished food on the floor, the closed curtains, the scattered rubble of my life.  
Hearing my nickname uttered sends me into a frenzy. I remove the dishes, throwing them carelessly into the sink, slipping the books and objects into neat piles, then I stop and stare at him.  
He sits, scrutinizing me. His legs crossed, his hands calmly situated on the arms of the chair.  
Unsure of myself I stand in the middle of the chaos, the world tilting, not able to think beyond the simple, “why are you here?”  
“Sit. We talk,” composed.  
Leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, panicking, mumbling out the words, “tea, Leonid?”  
“No. Sit. Why you afraid? Why you nervous!”  
Snorting, awkward, not knowing what to do or say, “I'm not afraid.” Truth be told, I’m deeply moved, but bewildered by the racing of my mind. I collapse into my chair, searching for something to say, some meaning to his return.  
“Kachina, my wife, and I flee country and go to Denmark. Russian government too strict. Denmark too cold. We move to England, it's three months now.”  
Sputtering, feeling like a little child, I ask, knowing the answer before he says a word, “Are you dancing anymore?”  
“No, no. I have much money put aside now. And body not limber as it was once. I retire.”  
Baffled that this beautiful dancer is in my view, in my space, I again inquire, “Why are you here, in my flat, right now?”  
His eyes squint, he clasps his hands together, “I worry for you. John is gone. How you doing and what is going the matter? What is all this?” his arms spreading out to indicate the slovenliness of the room. His dark eyes have me under his microscopic gaze.  
The dancer still has his shoulder-length hair, thinner and more whitish. And his body, although wider moves with the dancers’ grace.  
My mind can’t comprehend why I'm unmoved, detached. I should be crawling by his side. Apprehensive, my muscles are tense. Doubt ensnares me. Will he abandon me again? My thoughts race, there’s a tightness in my stomach. I can’t reach out. Can’t take comfort. As a matter of fact, I realize myself is inwardly screaming. Screaming for him to ‘get out’. Disappear. You’ve walked away repeatedly. Stop entering my life!  
I stand, turn towards the window, grab the curtain in my shaking hand and pay no attention to his interrogation.  
Behind me, his voice is a monotone, but underneath it’s battling. He wants to crumble, I can sense it. “ I see I not wanted. I leave you. Sorry I intrude.”  
My body still even though my mind whirls, torn between his presence continuing, or his vanishing into the city of London. I don't utter a sound, don’t rush to him, as he walks down the steps and lets himself out. I lose my breath as I catch sight of his back from the window. He turns, looks up, his agitation unmistakeable, and--waves.  
My grip on the curtain gives way to my fist banging on the sill. Lightheaded I scramble to the sofa and lie down, my hand over my eyes.  
The truth, the hard facts, the indisputable quandary is if I had dared to continue seeing the upturned crinkle in the corner of his eye, the affection in them, I would have weakened.


	20. Another Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short chapter

I haven't slept, hurling myself about so badly my blanket is twisted off the bed, my pillow on the floor. My stomach growls its need this morning but I gag at the calculations it would take to compose a breakfast properly. I'll allow myself John's remedy for all ills. Tea! Leaning against the counter, the kettle whistling, I am reminded of John. Those last days of his life. Voicing aloud his feelings, barely able to put his words together. “Weren't we lucky to have the time we did! And, my darling detective, what we had was the best of times.” His last feeble utterance before his ravaged face smoothed, all pain gone, all life gone.  
Shutting the gas and I pick up the pot and know John was right. We didn't have an abundance of years, but those we did have were incredible!  
Here I sit, sipping this damnable brew, my shortsighted, self-involved moronic person disregarding what is clearly in front of me.  
Hell, why am I lingering in this chair, this room, this flat? Have I lost Leonid? Did I, in a moment of lunacy, reject someone so prized?  
The Windsor Hotel! That’s his location! The taxi pulls up and before it halts, the door is swung open and throwing some bills at the driver I run. Inside pushing past people, their yells of 'hey watch it,' or worse, I set foot in an elevator. At the topmost suite, I relentlessly push the doorbell, resisting the urge to bang on the door and shout his name. An old woman tweaks the door open, inspecting. I blurt, “I'm looking for Leonid, Leonid Popov,” my breath caught, my hands finding no place to hide. Anticipation and trepidation take the wind from me, viewing him directly behind the woman who steps aside to allow me to take two steps closer.  
“Leonid,” choking his name out, a well-defined space prevents me from crossing to him. A space of apprehension.  
“Why are you here?” mimicking those words spoken by myself. I can’t talk. Can only look fixedly, transfixed, willing him to walk those few steps closer.  
“You go. I come tomorrow to your flat at eleven,” his voice steady, he about-faces and withdraws from my sight. I pause, ready to go after him. The old woman, who had been standing off to one side, imperceptibly touches my arm, shakes her head no and motions for me to go.  
Outside, I have to walk, to clear my head. Baker Street is not within a distance I could reach by walking but I need the opportunity to evaluate my plight.  
In my coat pocket, unremembered by me is a pack of cigarettes.  
No matches, no lighter. No immediate eagerness to approach another human. Determined to end my confusion, my uncertainty, I square my shoulders, hail a taxi to take me home. A frenzy of cleaning, of attacking the doubt that continually assaults me I know what I must do.


	21. Wonderful Dancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John's death Leonid is back with Sherlock. He explains his life to Sherlock. How does Sherlock handle this?

The next morning, I take a long shower, eat a breakfast of toast and tea and upon hearing the doorbell ring my indecision has whipped up--again. Frowning, exhaling, my heart palpitates, I shake my shoulders, and take in a purging breath. I open the door. An unseen, unspoken compromise maintains the distance we hold. Letting the air out of my lungs, I step back and follow the dancer up the steps.  
“Tea, Leonid?” my voice brittle.  
“Yes.” That yes rather gruff while he’s staring at the state of the room, now clean, now meant to represent the future. He walks to the kitchen, leans against the doorpost, observing me closely, “You have lost weight, you are so pale, you are--.”  
“Damn, I know all that!” penetratingly strident and Leonid flinches. The kettle is on the stove, and I take a step closer, “I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what's happening,” modulating my voice to be soft. “I’m disoriented and--,” I stop.  
“You miss your John. I can tell.” his face turned away, low enough that I almost those words.  
“Of course! Did you expect otherwise?” disturbed. He begins to knead my shoulders. I tighten, straightening up, my breath short.  
“ I no hurt you,” no emotion, just a simple statement, as he releases his hands from my body.  
“ I don't want you to touch me,” prickly, seizing the teakettle and tea things.  
“We talk,” soft, quiet. Leonid wanders to the bookshelves, while I stand struggling to find words, to bridge the gap.  
He stops, reaches to take the book off the shelf. He opens the first page and reads out loud, “'My Zolushka, My Cinderella. Your Russian dancer forever, Leonid.”  
Lifting his eyes from the book he beams, "you still have. You still have our memories.”  
He holds the book to his chest, and closes the breach between us, but only in distance.  
“Why you not want touch? From me? Your prince?”  
The urge is so compelling. To lay my hands--but I’m immobile.  
“Sherlock, explain.”  
“I’m terrified. Of you. Of us.”  
His arm contacts my cheek but withdraws as I shrink away.  
“Sit my lyubov(love). We talk and find out why Sherlock terrified. The sounds you make to me. Bitter, unkind," sighing deeply, “I, what is word to use, perceive you are doubtful of my love. I will give you my story.”  
Gracefully folding himself into a chair, Leonid lifts his cup, takes a sip, licks his lips and places the cup back on the table.  
Waiting until I take my place across from him, his tone is neutral.  
“You know I marry Kachina. I dance but do not leave country. She is shy and afraid of travel. I don't go because of her. We have no children. Trouble brews in our country and we go to Denmark. The cold is not good for Katchina and we move to London.”  
“ But why in London? Why are you here? Why select a country where it’s stormy, and damp most times?”  
“How can you not know? I hear of John's death. I come to this country to be near you.”  
“This is my brother Mycrofts doing, isn't it? His meddling in my life,” smashing my hand on the arm of the chair, knowing that’s not the reason. The real reason is one I am afraid to face.  
Leonid shushes me, “Not brother. But what matters? I am here. I do not need push from anyone to be with my Cinderella. But not understanding why you hostile to me?”  
“Did you think I'd rush into your arms? Rush into bed with you?” anger riding up from my stomach, my fingers flexing.  
He tilts his head, opens his mouth and shuts it.  
“Sherlock Holmes, you confuse me. I thought I give what you want. As always. How can I make better?” asking, no, begging.  
“You are suggesting a relationship? Again? What kind?”  
“Why you complicate? I give what you want. I say again,” He’s still, waiting.  
My head is swallowed into my hands, “I don't know, I don't know. You invade my life, lavish me with love, and abandon me. Why are you here?” muffled by my fingers covering my mouth.  
“I tell you more. Katchina know about me. Know I like men. She cry, yell at first, call me names.”  
Looking up, my hands slide off my face and lie limply on my lap, “that's why no offspring?”  
He nods, “I tell her about you. About my Cinderella,” and with the artistry that is the dancer he moves off the chair and descends, no, floats to the floor. To sit next to me, his body draped close to my legs.  
“Do you remember I tell you story about me being bee flitting from flower to flower?”  
“I remember it all Leonid,”  
“I lie. That is before I met you. From first evening at party. Remember party?”  
My smile bursts and I reach to touch his cheek. “You pirouetted, bowed and swore you’d die for me.”  
“ I make joke about wine you and dine you! Then fuck you,” giggling, smiling when I smile back. I curl my fingers without thinking into those blonde locks.  
"Yes, that was your goal for the night. To fuck me.” His whole body language changes. Both hands slide along my thighs, he gets on his knees, his face pushed close to mine. My breath hitches at his warmth.  
“Look at me, Sherlock Holmes. Close. Why am I here?”  
Those beautiful dark eyes, those dark eyes that always manages to radiate into my psyche.  
Swallowing hard, leaning forward, I push his body as if to remove him from this closeness, He topples back. Righting himself, sitting cross-legged, his hands in his lap, head down.  
Instantly contrite, “Give me your hand, please,” sounding thick and dramatic. His slim fingers blend into mine.  
“My Cinderella, moya mechta (my dream) you became only flower I wish to dip into after our rose night.”  
My mind slowly takes in those words, that look.The room, the noises from outside, the ticking clock, vanish into thin air. The only sound I hear is our private breaths.  
“ Ya lyublyu tebya (I love you) ya lyublyu tebya ( I love you),” each of my fingertips grazed by those lips. Registering those syllables in my head, “You can't mean that. You left--.”  
“In life, one has choices. Some good, some not. I had to go.”  
“Family,” is the word we both say at the same time.  
“My parents are gone, and Kachina no worry. Her family rich. She take care of herself.” Standing up, he walks to the fireplace and leans on the mantle, peering into its insides, the grey ash demonstrating the use of it last night. Even at this phase of his life, his body is tight, beautiful.  
I slowly move beside him. He turns, “my confession too much for you, moy angel( my angel)”. My insides twist, I take hold of his chin and place a chaste kiss on his lips.  
Everything turns upside down. My arms slide around his waist, leading him to the couch. He falls back and I follow.  
“What you doing?” and his breath, his sound is throaty. Without thought, no with thought, needing to touch his skin, to slide my body on his, to savor once more this Russian, I unbutton his trousers. He doesn't resist, lying still under me, his legs dangling on the floor. I hold back. He’s still as a sculpted statue and I become aware he’s upset. There's been no eye contact, no small kisses, no caresses. His arms slack, his face to one side. I stand up, clasping a hand over my mouth, pondering on my mistake.  
Off of the couch, Leonid buttons up and stares at me wide-eyed, “Not my Cinderella, not--. My Cinderella, gentle, caring.”  
“Leonid. No! I made a mistake. Don’t,--” so stunned I can’t grab him, can’t stop him as I shout after him, leaving the flat, the door slamming loud in my ears.  
As loud as the disgraceful, self-loathing that crashes into me. I crumple to the floor, holding myself in a tight embrace. Why did I attack Leonid? Lust? Need? Greed?  
I cannot grapple with my illogicalness. Too guilty, too mortified to call, to panicked to approach him face to face.


	22. Putting His Foot Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I plunge into myself as is my usual way of retreat. My head pounds. Lack of food. I know that the night has followed days while I doze, lying on the sofa. I haven’t gotten up except for essentials and my dressing gown is the only piece of clothing I wear.

I plunge into myself as is my usual way of retreat. My head pounds. Lack of food. I know that the night has followed days while I doze, lying on the sofa. I haven’t gotten up except for essentials and my dressing gown is the only piece of clothing I wear.  
I hear the door swing open, the creak of steps. Only Mycroft has the key, but his footfall is heavier!  
Not even curious, or maybe I’m too reluctant to look, I flinch when I hear a giant sigh and, “You will not sulk like baby. You are grown man. You make mistake. So what!”  
Leonid!!  
I don’t turn towards him, muffling my voice in the cushion, “How did you get the key? Why are you here?”  
“You ask questions. Should know answers. Why you act like little baby when you hurt in heart?”  
“My damn brother! He’s involved with this.”  
“Sherlock,” sensing his closeness to the sofa, “you get up and take care of yourself.”  
Burrowing deeper, “Ummm.”  
“Stop being child. You go shower, I cook,” his voice stern, unforgiving.  
I turn from the waist to note his arms are folded, “why are you here?”  
“I not answer stupid question. You know.” Reaching for me, I wave away his offer of an arm.  
“I can get up on my own.” My feet touch the floor, I stand, no, I wobble. Leonid right there to steady me, taking my elbow.  
“I take you to bathroom. Do you want--?”  
“I can manage a shower by myself, thank you,” well aware of my acerbic sound. And sorry for it.  
The water feels good and freshens me. Tiptoeing into my room to dress, I smell food, my insides gurgling with the need. There's a black garbage bag by the front door, and I know Leonid has cleaned out my smelly refrigerator.  
“For someone who says he loves me you are being rather pushy, dominating--.”  
I'm cut short at his furious stare and shut my mouth. Why can’t I, why don’t I secure my mouth?  
Leonid dishes out eggs and sausage onto a plate and lobs it carelessly onto the table, nearly upsetting the plate. I have never beheld Leonid so outraged. Confronted with his rage, I blink rapidly, picking up my fork and, head down, take a bite, forcing it down my throat.  
I eat in silence. His presence, while in the parlor, is palpable. I can only take a few bites, throw my dishes in the sink, and move into the parlor. He's sitting in the armchair, tapping his fingers on the arm.  
“I put clean sheets on bed. You have laundry,” his anger barely under control.  
He indicates the other chair, sharply pointing his finger, “There, and now, please. And no excuse.” His legs are crossed at the ankles, his hands now folded in his lap. My father, my school teacher. Authoritative and yet with a fondness. At first, I fiddle with my hands but slowly raise my head.  
Those eyes, those dark, dark eyes. Serene, benevolent, loving eyes.  
“Damn Leonid. What I've done is inexcusable. I don't--.”  
“Do not give excuse. It is over. We both to blame. Do not discuss anymore.”  
“I've asked this question so many times. Why are you here?”  
Leonid gracefully rises, his hand outstretched, and pulls me up. Leading me to the sofa, he takes a seat, and I next to him. “Lie down, put head in my lap.” His fingers idly stroked my cheeks and comb through my hair, his eyes watching, dreamy. “When we come to England Kachina said,' go to him, Leonid, he need you'.”  
A small kiss on my forehead and his fingers continue to play on my cheek.  
“I not certain. Know you lost John. But Kachina gave me advice. Good woman she is,” chuckling. Another kiss on my forehead, “she said 'you help him once. You love him. Help him now,' and that is why I am here.”  
His dark eyes bore into mine. “Do you not understand My Cinderella? I love you. Have always loved you. Will always love you.” I open my mouth to speak but his hand covers it and strokes my face.”You are going to ask questions but don't. I give answer,” bending over and licking my lips, a brief kiss.  
“I will not divorce my wife, I will live with her, but want to be your lover, your friend,” another kiss brushes my lips. “No, no answer, not now. I leave you and come back in three days. For dinner at five. Here. Give you time. Time to know I never leave you. But you need time to think. Do I want Leonid,” and he raises me up as we face each other.  
His fingers stroke, slide along my face, and his kiss, when it comes is warm, light and full of his expression of love.  
“In three days, my moy sladkiy(my sweet one),” and he's up and bounding down the steps.


	23. My Cinderella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In three days, in three days, I repeat, almost like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end of Why Are You Here. I might write more about Leonid someplace down the road. Thanks for all your kudos.

In three days, in three days, I repeat, almost like a prayer. How long I sit I do not know, and how long before I go into action I do not know. I had thrown most of the clutter into the spare room. Time for me to rearrange my life. The kitchen is my first stop. The next step is the laundromat and dry cleaners. Tackling all the papers and books, throwing old bills away, sorting through books to stay and those that go takes up two days of busyness. Leaving me worn down physically and mentally.  
It is the night, though, lying in bed, having to learn to rediscover who I am. To take back the joy that both John and Leonid had given me. Both have shown me incredible love, incredible patience. Incredible self-control. I blundered my way this time around with Leonid and keep getting a second chance. This is my last chance. I can’t let it go.  
The evening of the second day I conceive of a way, a plan to make it clear how I love him.  
It requires the wheedling of florists, furniture stores, and much patience on my part, to have every little detail in place. Dressing in my black trousers, no underwear, a tight purple shirt, unbuttoned to the waistband I view, in the minor a softness around my middle, and more grey hairs in the curls I still insist on possessing. Pacing the room, checking this and that, moving one thing here and moving it back, I restlessly wait.  
The doorbell rings and I spring down the steps, open the door and let him step in. He sniffs, looks down, turns and with a knowing grin, he ascends the rose-petaled covered steps. White roses everywhere; the floor covered with their petals. Candles and a lit fireplace illuminate a table set with gold silverware and dishes. Near the fireplace is a white furry chaise lounge chair. Wide enough for three people. One red rose rests in the center.  
His breath dives in and out, he holds his hand over his heart, “lyubov' vsey moyey zhizni (love of my life), you take breath away from me. You remember.”  
A crisp nod, surveying my finished product, “How could I ever forget the most dramatic night, and person, of my life.” Pausing, my heart thumping just as wildly as his must be. “I wine you and dine you and then fuck you,” repeating those words from years ago. “Only now we have the opportunity to have the wining and dining.”  
Cherishing the moment, warmth spreading throughout my limbs, I feel weak, hypersensitive to his blink of an eye, and I draw in my breath. I hand Leonid a red package with a white ribbon, and on one knee I kiss the fabric and set it on the red tablecloth.  
“You cannot open it yet,” cognizant that finally, I understand, I know.  
I melt at his moon-eyed, his slightly upturned lips. Is there a trace of tears in those dark eyes?  
“Would you care for champagne my belle rose? ( lovely rose)” speaking in French, pouring each a glass and raising it in a toast.  
“We will dine later in the evening. First I beg you to let me demonstrate what I never could,” shivering with pleasure, “my affection, my tenderness toward my Leonid.”  
It's my body that lies over his, my fingers that slowly unbutton, my lips that trace along his skin.With patience, with each touch of my fingers communicating feelings long held tight within myself.  
He's my prince, my king, to be worshipped, indulged, fawned over.  
My nakedness is against his, sliding, teasing, unlocking the flood tide of sounds which end in shattering ripples of love. Then sweet kisses, sweet murmurings.  
“You know now sladkaya lyubov (sweet love). How it is to find soul in you.”  
Kissing those lips, “ I have to leave you one moment,” and step to the table, bringing the package.  
“Not a book, angel'skoye litso( angel face) I can tell,” tearing open the paper.  
“A box?” lifting its lid the music box plays 'Swan Lake' and on the mirrored surface a ballet dancer, a man pirouettes “Where you find a man? Swan Lake is for a woman!”  
“For you, anything is possible, my ballet dancer.”  
“My Cinderella.”


End file.
